The Physical

Tonight, I walked you into the pediatrician's office for your 12 year old routine physical.  I was startled by the emotion.

As you sat next to me on the way to the appointment, we chatted about politics and your virtual school day.  But I had a moment, where I could look in the rearview mirror, and could see your chubby toddler face looking at me through, filled with constant chatter then too.  Just yesterday, I thought. Where did the time go?

So many routine doctors appointments and trips to the pediatrician over the past years.  Such a normal thing for a Mom do do with their child, take them to the doctor. 

As we would walk into the office, I'd hold your chubby hand tight.  You walked by my side, at eye level now, but above your mask, it was those same blue eyes staring back at me. Just a bit of concern.  Then you asked, "Will I need to get shots?"

As we entered the nurse handed you an Ipad, announcing that at age 12, you now complete your own screenings.  No longer my role, but yours.  No longer about how many words you can say, or if you know your colors, but a depression screening survey.

We sat in the room together, chatting away.  You noted that pediatrician floors always have the same colors, tiled floor patterns, colored tables.  You told me you were thinking of a career doing something really creative, you just weren't sure what yet. We made a bet on how much you would weigh. 

As the nurse came in, she took you away to do your height, weight, eyes and ear check.  I smiled as you walked out on your own, a start contrast to your youngest siblings that still need the escort.  But, just yesterday, I thought, it was you.  An emerging young man now, you came back and announced you won the bet. 

You answered all the doctors questions on your own.  Puberty hasn't arrived, but it will be here soon, she told us.  I shuttered a bit, as we both awkardly laughed, as I held onto the thought that I still have some time left.

I filled out your middle school physical form, as we took a walk down memory lane to a broken bone at 8 months, your outgrown milk allergy, ear tubes, phenomia, your concussion. All of these things held in the mind of a mother, distant memories to the child they impacted, molded scars on my heart which I can relive and retell at a moments notice.

The doctor told us that by age 18, you're projected to be over 6 ft.  I imagined you then, all grown, a delightful young man.  Would I blink and there you'd be?  I couldn't bear the thought. 

I